Fairy Tale No Longer
by Rosemarie-ouhisama
Summary: Chapter Four up! AU followup to Yvi's Palingenesis: He Should have known idealism would only last so long...
1. In Times of Desparation

Fairy Tale No Longer  
  
Chapter One (**revised**)  
  
Disclaimer: You know the drill. (Ok, ok, I own nothing, Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pierce own everything-am I off the hook now?)  
  
A/N: This story is inspired by and a follow-up to (if that is possible) Yvi's superb "Palingenesis", which is a realistic "alternative universe" look at what might really have happened if Satine had lived. Therefore, you MUST read it RIGHT NOW to know where this is coming from (if you are seeking fluff, kindly seek elsewhere.) She really has been my MR fanfic muse, and I can't give her enough credit. I also credit and recommend Yvi's "Le Temps Perdu" as well as mao's incredible trilogy, "Queen Bitch", "Love is my Religion", "Our Secret", for making me rethink the whole Satine/Nini dynamic (Nini will make an appearance in a later chapter-unless she doesn't want to & tells me to **** off.) The rating will probably be changed in later chapters if/when more explicit "adult" content appears. This is my first fanfic and some of my first writing in ten years, so constructive criticism will be warmly welcomed. (Thank you to Yvi, Tani, She's a Star and Black Tangled Heart for the early encouragement and nitpicks.) Flames will be lovingly ignored.  
  
You can tell that brevity is not my strong suite. Consider yourselves forewarned, gentle reader. And remember, no fluff. Now or ever.  
  
Dedicated to Yvi, naturally. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Perhaps she tried to take the wine bottle away from him when she thought he'd had more than enough-and he hotly disagreed. Perhaps a quantity of pills, or a blood-soaked handkerchief, fell from her pocket onto the floor in front of him, instantly making a lie of her claims of being on the mend. Perhaps she scattered a few morsels of bread to the sparrows congregating on the window ledge, and he scolded her for the waste of food and money. Or maybe it had nothing to do with her at all. Maybe frayed nerves were grated further by the racket of musicians and whores in the overhead apartment, drinking, dancing and copulating at all hours. Or maybe tender hands froze and sullen moods flared because there was no money to buy coal for the tiny, pot-bellied stove. Maybe a publisher's rejection letter came in the mail that afternoon, another in a growing pile to be tossed in the rubbish bin. Perhaps there was no reason at all. The "why" didn't matter. It never does.  
  
Sometimes, afterwards, in the cold, grey hours of dawn, Christian would apologize to her. He'd come stumbling back from the dance halls or God only knew where else (please, not the bordellos, she prayed) drunk on wine or absinthe. Or else he'd return stone-cold sober, having spent the entire night walking off his anger on beneath hissing streetlamps. He'd sink on the edge of the mattress beside her, his gaze on the floor, her's somewhere beyond the window. He never talked about it, and neither did she. Just a simple "I'm sorry. Forgive me." For a poet, he was a man of few words.  
  
And she would cry and bury herself in his arms, and forgive him completely. Until the next time.  
  
It became a routine between them, as well-rehearsed as the script of his play had once been. She became accustomed to the arguments in time, the foolish and unpredictable storm of tempers for reasons immediately forgotten. When she was too weak to argue back or defend herself, she could only listen, mute, as he rained invective upon her. Her past was a weapon which he wielded against her with increasing frequency.  
"You said you didn't want to lie anymore-no more lies, remember? You haven't changed at all, Satine--you're the same whore you always were!"  
The words pained her more than the occasional slap-that only stung for a moment, really. If only he wouldn't strike her on the face. Hard to pretend to the world that everything was sweetness and light with a bruise on one's cheek.  
"You don't mean that," she might say at times, with more hope than conviction.  
"I meant every word of it." Then later, softly, from his typewriter, back turned to her: "No, I didn't mean it."  
Then came the apology-the inevitable apology. After so many repetitions his words rang hollow, and she no longer bothered to cry, but there was still that moment when, genuinely contrite, he allowed her to snuggle against him. Pressing her face against his rough woolen coat, she felt his softness underneath-or what there was left of it-and wordlessly forgave him. Again.  
  
He still does love me, she told herself. He must. 


	2. Drunken Dwarfs and Faded Whores

Fairy Tale No Longer  
  
Chapter 2 (**Revised**--next time I'll proofread and edit BEFORE uploading!)  
  
Disclaimer: The usual. (Thank you, Baz and Craig Pierce. Moulin Rouge is now in embedded in my DNA. Procreation would therefore be risky on my part!)  
  
A/N: Thank you very very much, Yvi, for being my muse AND my beta. (I can't stand that term, actually-how about, "Angel who inspires me and holds my feet to the fire"? Too long to fit on a marquee?) And thank you She's a Star, Tani, and Black Tangled Heart for your kind reviews (wow!). As I've mentioned, this is a "follow-up" to Yvi's "Palingenesis", but I'm also going off on my own path, hopefully (*gulp*). I'll be experimenting with shifts in POV, so please let me know if it works. I'm bringing Toulouse into this chapter, and I will NOT be writing in the lisp-I would like to avoid reducing a very fascinating man to a stereotypical clown. (Warning, gentle reader: short rant. My one complaint with Baz's film, if I have any, is that Toulouse's character is WAAAYYYY underwritten; fortunately, John Leguizamo can do more with 30 seconds of screen time than most actors can manage in their entire careers. End of rant.)  
  
Do I need to repeat that this and all subsequent chapters are dedicated to Yvi? I thought not. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"How are you doing, my Queen?"  
"Better and better, thank you."  
Toulouse was a frequent, almost daily, visitor to Christian's garret after Satine's near-death at the Moulin Rouge. At first she was but dimly aware of him through a fog of sickness and painkillers. He often brought meticulously prepared meals; his skill as a chef was second only to his skill as an artist, he said with pride, and more than a little justification. There were platters of crisply roasted duckling a l'orange, tender boeuf Bourguignonne, or escargot floating in a pool of champagne sauce. All of which, unfortunately, was too rich for Satine, who could barely hold down simple broths. But Christian could hardly refuse the kindness, accompanied always by the little man's hearty laughter and twinkling eyes.  
"Still hard at work, my friend? Excellent, excellent-the name of such a genius will soon be on everyone's lips!" He slapped Christian on the back, before kissing the hand of the pale lady buried in blood-soiled bedclothes and grey blankets. Always he asked the same question: "How are you doing, my Queen?"  
And always he received the same reply: "Better and better," accompanied by a forced smile, when she was lucid enough to speak. When she wasn't, Christian provided the answer.  
"Ah, yes, of course; I can see that our young poet is taking excellent care of you! You shall be up and dancing again in no time at all!" Toulouse threw his arms into the air like an excited child, and then leaned closer to the edge of the mattress. "And then you will, I hope, permit me the honor of a dance?"  
"Oui, monsieur." She had never danced with him in all her time at the Moulin, not that he'd ever had the courage to ask her.  
His inquiries regarding her health were a mere formality. He could have peeked down through the hole in his floor to the garret below at any hour, and seen exactly how she was faring. Which, in fact, he frequently did do. But the visits were as much to comfort himself as his friends, reassuring him that Satine was still alive and that she might, in fact, make a full recovery. No matter that the possibility seemed dim when blood and phlegm rattled in her lungs, and now-exposed veins colored her skin ghostly blue.  
Over weeks and months into the early spring she seemed to recover some of her strength and was able to sit up in bed more often, propped up by borrowed pillows. Toulouse would be offered the room's lone chair next to the writing desk; settling in, he regaled Christian and Satine with fanciful tales that any poet would have been proud to claim. He spoke of the exploits of d'Toulouse ancestors stretching 1000 years back, elaborating and inventing whenever fact or memory was found wanting. Of his childhood, growing up in the family chateau of Malrome, with its endless gardens, cascading fountains, and cavernous rooms lined with marble and gilded mirrors. Of how he used to hunt, shoot, and ride alongside his father, the fourteenth Comte d'Toulouse. Omitted, of course, were the painful details of the accidents that broke his legs, and how his father could barely stand to look at him ever afterwards. He also brought news of Satie in Vienna, working on a commission for an avant-garde opera; that the composer had not bothered to write since his departure mattered very little. And he conveyed the blessings and well- wishes of everyone at the Moulin, especially Harold. "Every time I see him he tells me how much he misses his little sparrow, but when I remind him that you are in the loving care of our young poet friend, he smiles. " 'Ah, then she is certain the make a speedy recovery, Toulouse, and everything is sure to go well!' "  
The Red Windmill still turned outside the garret windows, as brightly- lit as ever, and Satine had no reason the suspect the little truths Christian and Toulouse had agreed to keep from her. That the Duke had taken over the deed to the Moulin Rouge and sold it to the highest bidder. That the new manager, one Monsieur Fleurs, had shut down Christian's play and let go of all the Diamond Dogs, scattered them back to the streets in an effort to ensure the respectability of the newly-converted theater. Or that Zidler, bankrupt and dejected, had quietly left Paris for parts unknown without having the heart to say good-bye to anyone. Even his little sparrow.  
  
"You simply must pose for me."  
He had begun making the request in late spring. Satine's health had slowly continued to improve, to the point that she was able to dress and receive visitors properly. She received him by herself that morning, apologizing for Christian's absence: "He has a meeting with an editor today at a very large publishing house. It looks quite promising." Toulouse nodded thoughtfully and noted her progress with approval, sure that it was due in no little part to the nourishing meals he'd sent all those months. Yes, her figure was still painfully thin under plain, dark dresses. Her hair had faded to a lackluster copper color, as she had ceased to apply henna to it during her illness. And the rouge she meticulously painted on cheeks and lips failed to impart a convincing blush of vitality. All these and more Toulouse noted with his incisive eye, and then chose to ignore.  
For her part, Satine was now alert enough to notice that her friend's health had greatly deteriorated. The primary culprit was alcohol-wine, absinthe, or brandy, it mattered not. He drank in order to revive his flagging moods, to numb the constant ache in his body and to forget his deformity for a little while. His skin was becoming a bilious shade of yellow, while his eyes reddened and watered ceaselessly and his mouth twitched for no apparent reason. His laughter, when it did come, was subdued; he no longer gesticulated wildly as he used to do when he was amused or excited. There was nothing left anymore to conceal the fact that he was a young man who had grown old and exhausted before his time. It all seemed very sudden to her, this falling apart of body and spirits. But when had I ever really paid attention to him before? He always just- Toulouse.  
And so they saw each other plainly, in cruel daylight, and lied to one another.  
"How are you doing, my Queen?"  
"Better and better, thank you. And yourself, Toulouse?"  
"I am simply intoxicated by the beauty of life. "  
She settled herself on the edge of her mattress after offering him the chair of honor. Then he resumed his request that she pose for him, having brought with him a small leather-bound sketchpad and several pencils. She had done so three years earlier for a poster Harold commissioned, wishing to spread the name of his Sparkling Diamond throughout Paris. Thankfully it had the desired effect, although Harold nonetheless grumbled that he was being overcharged by the little dwarf. For her part, Satine wore a sleeveless black satin gown that showed her tiny waist to its' best advantage, as well as long black gloves and a man's top hat titled at a rakish angle. What she remembered primarily was that posing for one's portrait was not as easy or romantic as she had imagined it to be. She shivered in the cold studio, wishing Marie had chosen a more sensible dress for her. She found standing for long hours tiresome, even with the rest breaks Toulouse thoughtfully provided. And she was told constantly, it seemed, not to move or even twitch a muscle--an impossibility for one who had been in motion her entire life. And as for the romance-sadly, Toulouse was simply no Rodin. Whenever he tried to sketch her afterwards, when he came to the nightclub and asked if she might sit, "please, just a moment, so I can capture your beauty," she tossed her bright hair and twirled out of reach. "You must catch me first!" He still half-expected her to twirl away from him now, poised as she was on the mattress somewhere between standing and sitting, as if unable to decide whether to stay or to go.  
"No, Toulouse, I couldn't pose for you." She did not want to be memorialized as she was now, even in the artist's private book. Two months earlier he had given her a quick sketch of her that he'd done while she was sleeping peacefully, a slumber certainly induced by laudanum. She burned it in the stove. "You should find another muse-there are so many pretty girls out there to pick from."  
"But you are beautiful." He said it simply, without his usual flourishes, and so quietly that Satine strained to hear it.  
"Not anymore, Toulouse." Before he could protest she tossed her head in the old way that he loved, and asked after Satie. "Has anyone heard from him since he took that commission in Vienna?"  
He closed his sketchbook and made up a story of the composer's latest adventures to entertain her. But he continued to study her intently-she thought it nearsightedness-and in his room that evening he pulled out his pencils and drew her from memory. The memory of how she looked that afternoon, framed by hazy light and so still she hardly seemed to breathe. Memories of endless nights at the Moulin, his heart ceasing every time she descended on her velvet trapeze. Of catching a glimpse of her running backstage after a performance, laughing with Mome Fromage, pausing only to adjust an unruly black garter. Watching her on the dance floor as she whirled in the arms of her client for the evening and longing to ask her to dance. Longing, just once, to be lady's choice.  
Of course he was in love with her, had always been in love with her. She had been too absorbed in the whirl of life at the Moulin to ever notice a dwarf of a man who drank too much and laughed too loudly, even if he was the fourteenth Comte d'Toulouse. But titles had never interested her. "Once you strip men of their titles, their clothes and their money," he once overheard her tell Nini, "they all look alike." Except for himself, he reflected with more sadness than bitterness. Clothed or unclothed, he was nothing a beautiful woman would look at. Especially once a young poet with green eyes and a silver voice-his own protégé--had stolen her heart. We are alike in our longings, my Queen, far more than you know.  
Cursing the unsteadiness of his hand, taking draughts of absinthe, he captured her face and her spirit in flowing lines and restless arabesques that danced across the smooth, cream-colored paper. With his pencil, he danced with her. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~A/N: I'm still having a little trouble with the format changing when I upload this-indents, spacing, italics, etc. don't want to behave. If anything lacks clarity, just let me know. 


	3. Memoirs of a Former Courtesan

Chapter Three  
  
When I was just seventeen I ran away from home  
To be with all the pretty people  
To be on my own  
Bright lights and trains and bedsit stains  
And pavements paved with gold  
And I believed in everything that everybody told me  
**********  
I found myself in a lonely place with a suitcase full of dreams  
And I soon grew up to realize what living in the doghouse means  
But everyday I told myself good things would happen soon  
"Cause I knew that I was going to be a legend in my living room  
**********  
Now everyday on a dead end street is where I spend my time  
The dust has been collecting on the corners of my mind  
But I've shed my tears in bitter drops until the thorn trees bloomed  
To take the spiky fruit to crown myself the Queen of Doom  
  
--Annie Lennox  
  
Outside my window, the Red Windmill still turns, still burns brightly each night. It's gaudy and beautiful, and it beckons like a sweet to those with insatiable appetites.  
  
I don't know why this surprises me. Did I really expect the departure of the Sparkling Diamond to bring the Moulin Rouge to a crashing halt? Perhaps.  
  
Am I disappointed that the Windmill-in fact, the whole world-turns without me? Perhaps. It's not that I wish to go back to my former life, oh no. But sometimes, I wish I could be any place other than where I am. Some place where that damned windmill isn't staring back at me. I suppose it does hurt my pride to realize that I was always replaceable, no matter what flattering lies Harold told me.  
  
Harold-damn him. It isn't bad enough that he claimed he loved me, but never bothered to get me proper medical care when he knew I was sick, and then lied to me about it until it served his purposes. (His cherub, he called me, his little chickpea. Such nonsense.) Worse still was that he was willing to sell my soul, whatever there is of it, to fill his pockets. Yes, I consented to sell my body night after night, but this was another thing altogether. And I, of all people, who made a living of lies, should have seen right through him. I thought I was the greatest courtesan Paris had to offer-which one of us was the greater whore, dear Harold? If you'd been more concerned with me than with your ledgers, would I now be spending all my hours cooped up in this dreary little garret?  
  
It's not that I'm complaining, mind you, about living with Christian. He does his best to take care of me, although lately his attention and care have fallen off a bit. I suppose that's to be expected, now that I'm feeling better-no longer bed-bound, at any rate. I suppose that counts for "better", even if blood still soils my handkerchief when I cough. And that can be concealed easily enough.  
  
It's just that, suddenly, going to the market stalls to haggle for turnips or carrots while wading through the muck in the streets, trying to avoid puddles and manure-suddenly it all sounds like a great deal of fun.  
  
It also sounds like more effort than I can possibly manage. Just getting myself dressed each day is quite the achievement. Especially since I've got no one to draw the laces of my corset or button my dress up the back. Christian tries sometimes to help, but he's as hopeless as any other man in that regards--why are they always so good, then, at unfastening my clothes?  
  
I do try to keep myself occupied. I've read all of Christian's battered little volumes of poetry over and over. I even think I'm beginning to understand Shakespeare, what with all those funny old words that even Christian can't explain to me. I'm rather proud of that, given that English is not my mother tongue.  
  
Silly thing to be proud of, isn't it? I have to laugh at myself when I stop and read my scribblings-and there's no other word for it. It's not a memoir; no one else will ever see it. (One writer in the household is quite enough, thank you.) It's nothing so formal as a diary, even, those books with pink moiré covers and tiny gold locks that the young ladies carry about. Just jottings on the back of Christian's discarded papers, which I pick out of the rubbish bin and smooth flat when he's not looking. (I do have to be careful. He had a little snit last week that these were drafts of his stories and he might need to refer back to them later. Never mind that he'd just tossed them in the waste bucket.) It's a little game that fills spaces in the empty hours.  
  
Quite an effective one, though. I can sit down to write in the morning after Christian has left for the day to show his stories 'round to the various publishers. Before I know it I hear the footfalls on the stairs that tell me he's returned for the evening. Only then do I realize the last rays of light are dying in the sky and I'm shivering slightly because I haven't put on my shawl or stoked the fire in the stove. Then I'll be in for a scolding.  
  
I also tidy up the garret, but that's no bother. There's only so much housekeeping I can do in one room-make the bed, empty the chamber pot from the night before, clear away the bottles and the dirty wine glasses Christian's left about. He also leaves his manuscript papers on every possible surface, but he gets cross with me if I touch a single page. The walls almost look alive when the breeze rustles all the pages tacked to them like feathers.  
  
He's off during the day more often now, less worried about leaving me alone. He doesn't look so terrified whenever I cough, as though I might be taking my last breath. Then again, he doesn't seem to notice much at all anymore when I cough. Should I take that as another sign that I'm recovering? I don't know. Am I recovering?  
  
The doctor no longer says I'm dying, at least not in front of me. What things he and Christian whisper to one another in the hallway, I can only guess. I know they mean well, but it's rather rude, really-having other people talk about you and not be included in the conversation. I guess I should say "doctors" but it never matters which one comes. They all say and do the same things, poking and prodding and feeling around-oh, do get that cold little thing off my chest, please! Yes, I'm sure they enjoy themselves royally. Their little thrill for the day, I imagine. Glad to oblige you, doctor. Except I do recall that I'm the one who used to get paid for the privilege.  
  
I don't even see a doctor that often anymore, which suits me fine. I only get a visit when when Christian can scrape together enough money from selling a few stories to the women's magazines. It's always the first thing he spends money on, and I want to tell the poor stubborn boy to stop wasting it. But it shows me that he still cares about me, and those little proofs mean everything nowadays.  
  
"She is doing as well as can be hoped for," the doctor says, after his little poking-and-prodding act is up.  
  
She. He addresses Christian always, and speaks of me as though I were not sitting right in front of him. (Damnably rude, these doctors.)  
  
And I do wonder, what does all that mean, "as well as can be hoped for"? That I'm getting better? That I can expect a full recovery? That I truly am dying, but no one has the courage to tell me the truth? Christian usually asks the questions before I am able to-all but that last one, of course. He never asks that.  
  
"It means, M'sieur, that she has not declined since I have last seen her. That in itself is remarkable-"  
  
"So she is getting better, then. She will get better." Sometimes he says that as a statement, other times as a question. It depends on his turn of mind.  
  
But the doctor doesn't make a reply at first; he only folds his stetho- whatever it's called, that cold chest-prodding thing-he folds it up and lays it carefully inside his worn leather satchel. His brows are furrowed, and he's considering what to say. (I ought to know.)  
  
"You need to encourage her to eat more, M'sieur, even if her appetite is poor-lots of meat, beef especially. Strengthens the blood. And I cannot urge you too strongly to get her to a sanitorium as soon as possible. She needs to breathe clean mountain air, plenty of it, and receive medical attention day and night-"  
  
"She does receive care day and night." Poor Christian. His voice is low; I can tell he's smarting from the doctor's well-intentioned but careless remark.  
  
"There are excellent ones in Switzerland, of course." The doctor continues his little speech as though Christian hadn't said a word. He's not about to get sidetracked from his script. "Also, some new ones in California, I understand. In the meantime, M'sieur, make sure she takes this twice daily- -" he pulls from his bag a dark bottle of what I know to be one horrid- tasting tonic or another, "-and administer laudanum only as absolutely necessary." Then he tips his hat to me and murmurs "Au revoir, M'moiselle." It's only the second time he's acknowledged me, the first being when he walked in the room and asked me to unfasten my dress. (I ought to be used to that one by now. Men really are all alike.)  
  
Then it almost becomes a game between Christian and myself-though I don't think he'd see it that way--as to which one of us will be the first to force a smile and say "That was encouraging" to the other one.  
  
Poor Christian.  
  
I wish sometimes that that he'd just stop wasting money on those stupid doctors, who always repeat the same script visit after visit. I want him to stop wasting money on nasty medicines which I can't even keep down anyway. Perhaps then we just night be able to afford a little meat on the table for supper! But he needs the doctor to come more than I do, I think. He needs so badly to hear-well, if not that I'm healed, at least that I'm not getting any worse. That I'm not dying, not at the present moment. And that alone gives him his little particle of hope to cling to.  
  
But if I'm not cured and I'm not dying, then what am I? Lingering? Ugh. I'm forbidden to leave the garret by myself and I'm too weak yet for anything but the shortest walks. Christian and I can't make love, which must be God's great joke on me. He's the only man in my life I ever wanted, and now that I've got him I can't have him.  
  
And, except for Toulouse (who's very sweet but does pester me so about posing for him!), the most company I have during the day are the sparrows and swallows on the window ledges. They only come 'round because I feed them, little beggars. At least they come 'round at all, whatever their motives. I have not gotten one visit from Harry or Marie in over three months. Probably afraid of the royal scolding I'd give them.  
  
A half-life in the shadows-that's what my life feels like now. Or perhaps I am the shadow.  
  
I suppose I should be terribly grateful I haven't got syphilis. Oh, syphilis is truly horrible. I remember Delphinia, one of the "veterans" of the Moulin Rouge-all of 29 years old-being slowly disfigured by it. It ate her nose away and left her with a bloody hole in the center of her face. She had to wrap a scarf around her face like an Arab shiek; servicing clients was out of the question, as was singing or dancing. A pity, too; before that she had been one of the most beautiful and sought-after courtesans at the bordello, with a silver-tipped voice I couldn't ever hope to match. A true queen. It was she, in fact, who most often occupied the Red Room in the Elephant, that awful monstrosity of Harold's, before I did.  
  
Once Delphinia was no longer of any use to Harry, he took the simplest, cheapest and most expedient course of action: he put her in a lunatic asylum, reasoning that the illness would eventually devour her brain and she was headed that way in any case. The last time any of us girls saw her, Harold was helping her into his carriage and telling her they were going for a short ride to take in the country air. Of course he returned alone, unusually pale and quiet, but nothing more was ever said about it. He never so much as uttered her name again.  
  
That was the first night Harold told me to take a client to the Red Room. Delphinia's few possessions-magazine cut-outs of contented mothers and fat babies displayed in cheap frames, buttery kidskin gloves with the odd button missing, playbills with her name as the top-billed act--had already been removed. Never one to waste time, Harold.  
  
********************  
  
After the doctor leaves the garret, Christian stands by the door with his hands shoved into his pockets as far as they'll go, except when he strokes back his hair from his face, which only makes a worse mess of it. He'll rock back and forth on his heels or pace the room a bit, while his eyes dart about and he mumbles something I haven't a hope of hearing. I know he's doing calculations in his head but, compared with words, numbers are not his strong suit. He will try-he'll try so hard!-to figure out a way to send me to a sanitorium, to make the few dollars we have between us stretch all the way to Switzerland or California . But the numbers simply don't add up. Then his shoulders sag and he sinks back on his heels.  
  
But after all of this Christian still paints on a smile for me and blathers a few words of encouragement-for his own morale as much as my own.  
  
It pains me to watch him suffer so, it really does. It hurts more than the fire in my chest and thoat, more than the coughs that seize me violently in the night and offer me no rest. There is no medicine for what Christian is suffering. He wants more than anything for me to live-not just to linger, but to be truly well again. I want that, too, and I know he'll do anything in his power-is doing everything-to make it so.  
  
I have hazy memories floating about in my head of Christian taking me to the countryside surrounding Paris when I first fell sick. I was still only half-conscious if that most of the time, but the memories repeat themselves frequently enough that he must have done it often. Perhaps we went to the same places where we picnicked when he was first courting me. I recall him wrapping me up in a shawl and blanket and lifting me ever so gently into a carriage of some kind-maybe the omnibus? Or perhaps Toulouse hired a cab for us. I do remember quite clearly how miserable the journey was for me; the springs of the cart rattled and jolted ceaselessly over the cobblestones until every inch of my body screamed. I buried my face against Christian's shoulder so he couldn't see me wince.  
  
I remember, too, the relief when we finally arrived at our destination. The blossom-dotted grass he laid me upon felt like a down mattress. And no matter how much I tried to push away my wrappings under the warm sun, he insisted I remain bundled up. "No, Satine, I don't want you catching your dea-catching a chill out here."  
  
He'd lay beside me and read poetry from one of his little books while I drowsed. I think he also read Shakespeare's plays, but I'd fall asleep before the end of the first scene. He'd give me little sips of water, catch the rain of blood in his handkerchief when I coughed, and gently wipe the scarlet crust from my lips. Sometimes he'd do nothing but stare at me for hours on end, as if that alone could prevent me from slipping away.  
  
"The sunshine feels good, doesn't it, darling?" He'd stroke my hair or caress my cheek. "And the air here is so much cleaner than Montmatre-drink it in, my love, drink in great draughts of it." If a sanitorium wasn't possible, he would certainly give me the next best thing.  
  
And I loved him for that. I loved him for how much he loved me, for how much he cared and how hard he tried. At the same time I wanted to scream at him: Let go of me. Stop trying so hard to cling to me, to keep some damaged scrap of me here just so you won't be left alone. Please, please, Christian, just leave me here, leave me on this hill to die. Walk away and start your life afresh. Don't let yourself be dragged down with me. Please.  
  
I was terrified that he would leave me, and terrified that he wouldn't.  
  
None of this was ever said aloud, of course; the words always died in my throat. Just as he never told me how terrified he was of losing me, though I saw it plainly behind his crooked smile. Practiced liars, the both of us are. I've been at it a longer, of course, but he's learned quickly enough. Too quickly. I wish to God he hadn't.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Disclaimers (the legal stuff): "Moulin Rouge!" and it's characters the property of Bazmark Productions and Twentieth-Century Fox, copyright 2001. "Legend in My Living Room", lyrics by A. Lennox and Peter-John Vettese; copyright La Lennoxa Ltd. & Copyright Control, 1992.  
  
Confessions: A follow-up to Yvi's superb "Palingenesis" in case anyone needs reminding (or your wandered in on the middle of the "movie", so to speak.) Tip o'the nib to drama princess's "Faded Diamonds" for inspiring the name "Delphinia". (I cry every single time I read that story-so beautiful and so real. Simply one of the best short stories I have EVER read, period.) Another tip o'the nib to Christine Bubbles' "The Peacock and the Swan" (a gorgeous and truly original love story from a truly talented writer) for use of the term "veteran" to describe Delphinia. Special nod of appreciation to the amazing Ms. Kidman.  
  
Dedication: To my muses and angels, Yvi and Norah (black tangled heart). They are true collaborators in this work, inspiring me with their artistry, critiquing and guiding me every step of the way, graciously gifting with me astonishing ideas to make the story better, ideas I never would have come up with on my own. Thank you so much--I love and adore you both. 


	4. Penny Dreadfuls

**Fairy Tale No Longer—Chapter Four: Penny Dreadfuls**

_"Make way for Orpheus"_

_All people said, _

"_That is a fortunate man";_

_And now what storms are beating on his head!_

_Call no man fortunate who is not dead._

_The dead are free from pain._

--William Butler Yeats

Christian James should have known idealism would only last so long. Particularly when bread was in short supply.

He put on his best brown suit and left the garret early each morning (except on Sundays), usually before the first glimmer of sunlight had a chance to strike the dirty windowpanes. He tucked a freshly-typed copy of his latest manuscript, which Satine lovingly wrapped in brown paper and string the night before, under his arm before he softly kissed the crown of her head and strode out the door. And each evening (except on Sundays) he came home, after the sun had exhausted itself for the day, and kissed Satine's limp hair on the very same spot he kissed it each morning.

Every day and every evening, he left and returned with great diligence and determination. He was certain that his stories would quickly find an appreciative publisher, who would sell the books to an appreciative audience, which would bring him much acclaim and not a little money, which he of course would accept with great appreciation.

He was certain--at first. Then, he was optimistic, then hopeful, then...grimly determined. Still he trudged out each morning (barring Sundays, of course) and knocked on the door of every publisher within walking distance of the boardinghouse. Never mind that his best brown suit, the one that he'd worn so proudly when he first arrived in Paris, was starting to look much the worse for wear.

He tipped his hat politely to the receptionists—some pink-cheeked, some withered—in the tiny waiting rooms. He sat down on hard chairs amongst countless other writers, men young and old. All wore frayed clothing like his own, all had ink-stained fingers like his own, all clutched precious parcels like his own. He patiently waited his turn to be led into musty, windowless offices; piles of books had been shoved aside on the floors to create narrow paths leadingto similarly-littered desks. He tipped his hat again and painted a smile on his face as he presented his manuscript to the men who were nearly engulfed behind those massive desks and mountains of paper. Men with cold hands and bleary, disinterested gazes who tossed Christian's heart and soul onto those shifting piles with the hearts and souls of hundreds of other writers. All of which were carefully bundled in brown paper and string, like his own.

"We'll look this over and let you know. Good day, _monsieur_."

Satine often teased him on the poverty of his French, but it didn't take Christian long to translate the true meaning of that phrase--in any language. Particularly after the pile of rejection letters on his writing table grew thicker than the manuscript itself.

The text of these missives was always brief and to the point: _Thank you for your_ _submission__shows a great deal of promise_..._regretfully, we are not interested in publishing it at this time_..._wish you success_..._Sincerely..._

The first few such letters, jacketed in thick and unrevealing envelopes, had been greeted by the young writer with genuine astonishment: "Why don't they want to publish it?" And, by his beloved muse with all the indignation she could muster: "They must be either blind, or stupid, not to see how good your work is—that's the only possible explanation!"

Christian read and re-read the typewritten words on the bland white pages, as though at some point the black letters might magically re-arrange themselves into a more agreeable form: _Thank you for your submission...We__ are pleased to inform you that we wish to publish your fine novel_..._enclosed is a contract for your signature and a cheque as an advance on the royalties_..._many more to follow_..._Sincerely..._

And on those nights when he had just enough wine in his blood, he could almost make himself see those words he so desperately needed to see. (On those nights when he consumed absinthe, on the other hand, he couldn't see _anything _at all except acid-green explosions and dancing, winged sprites.)

Regardless of how many rejections came in the post, Satine always picked up her diatribe against the city's heartless editors from wherever she'd left off the last time: "Uncultured, unfeeling cretins! Oh, but never mind about those fools, darling; there must be several hundred publishing houses in Paris."

Christian glanced over the top of the letter at his lover standing before him, and noticed that she was beginning to tremble whilst her breathing became more labored. Though, she seemed not to take notice of it herself. Not at first.

"It only takes one—one person—the right person—" She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief when the coughs became too forceful to ignore. "—to see what a—a great writer y—you are."

The white cloth in her hand fluttered upward, like a dove, to her mouth. _An oddly beautiful image_, the young storyteller thought to himself.

An un-beautiful hacking sound flared forth from her chest and spiraled up her throat. "Then every—everything will—will be—diff—differ—"

"Yes, sweetheart, you're right. It will be different." The "Voice of the Revolution" (as Toulouse had once dubbed him—_or had that been the absinthe talking_?) tossed aside the rejection letter, and led the former "Sparkling Diamond" (as Harold Zidler had crowned her at the pinnacle of his greed) to her bed. "It will be better, I promise. He fumbled through the contents of the nightstand drawer for a dark glass bottle. "Here's your medicine—"

"Don't—mind me—silly little cough—I—I'm fine." A spot of crimson on white linen provided the usual punctuation mark to her sentence.

"You know what the doctor says." He poured the thick syrup into acracked cordial glass and pressed it into her hand. She wrinkled her nose and downed it in one go, grimacing at the taste. "Take it all up, that's it," he encouraged her. "I'll send out five more manuscripts tomorrow, don't worry. You're right. There must be several hundred publishers in Paris."

Yes, there must have been several hundred, at least. Christian had the growing pile of letters on his desk to prove it.

Christian did manage to sell a few stories to one avant-garde periodical or another, which generally closed down within a few short months due to mismanaged finances. Enthusiasm, it seemed, was always in far greater supply than money. He was, however, able to earn just enough to allow him say that, technically, he was making his living as a writer. What sort of living was another question altogether.

Sometimes it was a choice between Satine's medicines and coal for the stove; other times, a decision had to be made between fuel and food. In either case, the coal usually lost. Christian was not about to deprive Satine of prescribed tonics, whether or not they seemed to do any good; and blankets could always be heaped on the bed for warmth, whereas a meal was not so easily replaceable.

Meanwhile, the rejections flowed in as the money flowed out; the same pair of hands might havetyped them all: _regretfully, we have decided..._ _regretfully, we cannot...__we regret to inform you_..._we regret...__we regret..._

After several months the _regrets_ would have accumulated unopened in the rubbish bin, had it not been for Satine. "Aren't you going to open it?" she asked one evening, after he dropped the latest missive unceremoniously in the garbage.

"Whatever for? I already know what it says—the same thing as all the others—"

"You don't know that, yet." She slit the envelope open with the sterling paper knife that he had received as a birthday gift from his mother, while he was still a schoolboy.

"What does it say?" He wrestled with the cheap corkscrew Toulouse had "loaned" him a month ago, and gracelessly opened an even cheaper bottle of red wine. The bottom half of the cork broke into shards that floated on the surface of the dark liquid. "Well? I'm right, aren't I?"

"Never mind about them, Christian." He shrugged in response as she laid the letter atop its' predecessors. Then she tossed her head in that old way of hers', a haughty-seeming gesture that had once made him believe that the cares of the world were none of her concern. The truth of the matter had been, in fact, that he was too naïve and to see the awesome weight that hung over her head. He saw it now, though; he saw it as clearly as he often saw the bloodstains on her handkerchiefs, now matter how hard she tried to hide them from him by stuffing them in her pockets.

Because the cares of the world were his now, too.

But that didn't stop her from forging one of her well-crafted smiles for him. "Why, there must be thousands of publishers in this country; I'm sure you haven't even begun to scratch the surface. If you type up some more cover letters, I'll bundle them up with the manuscript copies—"

"I haven't got any more copies typed up."

"Oh. I see." She chewed her lower lip until it bled—a nervous habit she'd never been able to defeat. "I suppose I could type one up if you teach me how to use this machine. It doesn't look too hard; I've watched you do it often enough." She sat down in front of the Underwood and studied the keys with an intensity she'd once reserved for memorizing his script.

"Two-hundred-plus pages would take you all night plus several days following, Satine."

"All the more reason to start on it right away. It's a good thing I'm a fast study--unless I choose to take my time. Remember our 'rehearsals'?"

The wicked smile that curled across her lips was one he hadn't—_oh, I have not seen that smile in the longest time_.

"Now," she picked up a piece of blank paper and held it poised over the typewriter's platen, "if you'll just show me how to load--"

"Satine, stop it!"

He snatched the paper from her hands with such violence that she gasped, and drew back involuntarily. Her white fists hovered protectively on either side of her face. "Are you daft, Christian? Are you drunk?"

He shook his head. "P-please, Satine, sweetheart" How could he explain? How could he say it? _I can't type any more manuscripts. I haven't got enough paper, the ribbon is fading and I haven't enough money to buy either—unless, you don't mind not eating for a couple of days._

No, he was not drunk, just then; but he wished that he were. Green explosions and winged sprites would have proved a welcome diversion. He recalled, almost absent-mindedly, that wonderful first summer of the play's protracted "rehearsals", when Satine had danced for him and only him. How he never wanted the nights with her to end, as he drowned in her perfume and in her laughter. How he thought the only thing he'd ever need in life was to watch her twirl and glide across the tiny garret, in a flurry of scarlet locks and lace-trimmed petticoats.

"Darling, let this alone for tonight." He cupped his hand beneath her elbow and led her from the writing table, gingerly, though she still recoiled slightly at his touch. "Let's go sit on the balcony, eh? We'll have a drink together, and stare at the moon—we haven't done that in the longest time--it's very nearly full, tonight." He thrust his drinking glass towards her. "Have some wine with me--"

"Christian, don't." She pulled away from his grip and stared at him, wide-eyed, as though he truly were daft.

"Don't _what_?"

"Don't...don't give up." Her voice was very small as she settled on the edge of the mattress. She had turned away from him by this point, but he could detect the outline of a morose pout. Her fingers traced the patterns of stitching in the dingy yellow coverlet. "You have to believe in yourself, oftentimes, before anyone else will believe in you. You have to let your _faith _in the work sustain you, until other people recognize how good you are. And they will, too; it's just a matter of time."

His eyes fell on that stack of refusals, the latest one lying open on top where his beloved had left it. "No one believes in me or my stories, Satine. No one cares."

"_I do_." She turned around to face him. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears but her expression was fierce and determined—_proud,_ he almost would have called it. "_I_ believe in you. You can't give up. You can't—"Her breath emerged in shallow gasps; the fierceness vanished in the ether as suddenly as it had materialized. "Please, Christian, you mustn't—" Crystalline teardrops began their inevitable descent down well-worn tracks.

"Don't cry, Satine." More than anything else in the world, more than the ruddy rejection letters, even more than the bloodstains on her handkerchief, he hated—_hated _to see her cry. It reminded him of the opening night of his play—their love story—when he had failed her for the first time. In his rage and jealousy he had humiliated her, called her a "whore" in front of a theater full of strangers and abandoned her on the cold stage of the Moulin Rouge. He might have left her there and given up Paris forever, had he not heard her angelic voice calling out to him, singing the words of the song he'd written for her—for _them—_asking forgiveness for her deception and declaring her love for him to all who would listen.

And it reminded him of all the ways he had failed her since then: failed to take care of her, failed to provide for her, failed in his duties as lover—failed to even give her his name, as a man ought. He couldn't even afford a plain gold band with which to marry her, and she deserved that, at least; she deserved more, so much more.

"Please don't cry, sweetheart." He folded his arms around her and pressed her face against his shirt while she continued to weep quietly. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to lose himself in her kiss the way he used to, but even that simple thing was forbidden thanks to her illness—doctor's orders "I won't give up, I promise. I'll try again tomorrow."

"Tell me it—it will be all right," she whispered between sobs. "Tell me, Christian, and I—I'll believe you."

"Of course it will, you'll see."

Yes, there must have been thousands of publishers in France alone. And Christian James must have received a rejection letter from every single one of them.

Occasionally, he didn't have to wait for a letter.

"Your story is very fine, _Monsieur _James; you have a great deal of talent and potential." The publisher who sat in a leather armchair behind a massive mahogany desk—_Monsieur_Alphonse Guerre, in this instance—paused for a great length of time. He tucked his sober grey tweed suitcoat back with his arm and revealed a paisley silk waistcoat that was a bit too loud to be truly proper. A heavy gold watch chain was draped across, emphasizing a thick torso. His girth was nowhere near that of Harold Zidler's but, Christian decided, this was a man who obviously enjoyed his pastries and port. "Regretfully, however..." The publisher paused again.

Was the answer so self-evident he didn't need to supply it? Christian suddenly realized he was squirming in his chair, and hoped _Monsieur_ Guerre didn't notice. "Well?"

"I'm afraid we are not interested--"

"Why not?" Christian interrupted hotly, fidgeting with a loose thread on the edge of his own jacket. It was unusually bold of him to ask, but he had the man in front of him—damn it, why not take the opportunity?

"This is simply not the sort of book we publish. It wouldn't suit our readership." _Monsieur _Guerre produced two slender paperback novels with bright, splashy cover illustrations. "To be quite frank, _Monsieur_, our readers are not looking for subtlety or sophistication; nor do they care about elegant phrasing. All they want is—how do you English say it?—'a ripping good yarn'. And that is what we provide."

Christian picked up the books lying in front of him. _Penny dreadfuls_. The name reflected the price and the quality of the prose equally. Mass-produced, sold at apothecary shops and corner kiosks, and gobbled up like candy by those with simple tastes. Young girls and bored wives seemed especially easy prey to their lurid tales and exotic settings.

Then again, so were the girls in the bordello. Christian remembered groups of them gathered around either Nini or Travesty during rehearsal breaks, giggling, squealing and swooning as virtuous heroes protected fainting damsels, villains sneered and rattled swords, and soldiers galloped across desert and plain in the name of God and Civilization. All of it garnished with blood spilled aplenty, and just enough eroticism to bring a blush to the cheeks while skirting the edges of strict propriety and legality. None of it written with any grace or style to speak of.

"Ridiculous," he once sniffed at a particularly overwrought passage of prose.

"Compared to what?" Nini had shot back, indicating the Moulin's unfinished stage set with a toss of her head. "That soddin' masterpiece of yours?"

Christian frowned at the memory as he examined the cover illustrations of the books in front of him. A horde of thick-lipped, bug-eyed savages brandished spears as they closed in on a blond-haired fellow with broad shoulders and equally broad chin. The scene took place in a jungle—or so Christian surmised from the roughly-sketched palm trees filling the space behind the hero. Said hero had apparently fired the shotgun he held in his hand, as crimson blood gushed forth from one of his dusky attackers. Christian thought of Chocolat for a moment: argueably handsome, undeniably graceful, and so very gentle, and was suddenly embarrassed on the dancer's behalf.

A man wearing the garb of an American cowboy adorned the cover of the other novel. At least that's what Christian thought the hero was meant to be, judging from the rather silly, oversized hat and the prominent gunbelt. Again, the hero brandished a pistol in one hand, whilst the other supported a swooning lady. Her dress was torn from neck to waist, revealing an ample bosom and a glimpse of a pink nipple. _How do they get away with selling this stuff on the streets? _Christian wondered silently. _It's amazing they don't get arrested for the threat to public morals. _The cowboy and the lady stood on the very edge of a cliff, threatened by a tan-faced villain with a curling black mustache and a sombrero; a thick knife was clenched between the Mexican's teeth.

Christian opened the book at random.

--"Oh Pierre," she sighed, breast heaving. "We are doomed, utterly doomed!"--

_A cowboy named Pierre? Hardly likely, _Christian was sorely tempted to say aloud. Instead, he continued reading:

--"Fear not, my love, I shall protect you! We shall prevail against those dastardly villains!"--

"If you can write something like that," Monsieur Guerre interrupted, "we're always looking for writers to add to our—again, how would you say?—_l'etable_?"

"'Stable' ?" Christian tossed the book down on the desk in front of him.

"_Oui_." The older man leaned back in his leather-covered armchair, smiling slightly. "We have several writers under our employ who are paid a flat fee for each book they produce. There is no worrying about royalties, and all of that nonsense. If you are interested..." Here again, the publisher paused for effect.

Christian glanced down at the villainous Mexican who threatened the cowboy and his lady. The crudely-drawn face reminded him ever-so-slightly of the Narcoleptic Argentinean, but without the tango dancer's smoldering elegance.

"It is not great literature; I will grant you that. But, it is an income."

Distant church bells chimed the twelve o'clock hour. _Monsieur_ Guerre pulled out his gold pocket watch, nearly as big around as Christian's palm, and checked it against the tolling bells. He replaced the timepiece in his vest pocket and set a cream-colored business card on the desk in front of Christian.

Christian noticed his hand shook slightly when he picked up the card, and hoped the man across the desk didn't notice it, too. It was awful, this stuff, a mockery of all his ideas and aspirations. He wanted to fling the card in the man's face—_how dare you even think I should lower myself in this manner—_

But_...but_..he gripped the card tightly and noted the publisher's ample physique. _It would be nice to have a decent meal on the table for once, _the boy reflected. _Food costs, and Satine's medicines cost, and coal for the stove costs, and everything is so dear when you haven't an income._

Christian searched for words, and swallowed...hard.

"Think on it, young man. Now, if you will excuse me," _Monsieur_ Guerre rose from his seat, Christian's cue to leave. "I have another appointment"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you for seeing me. _Merci._" Christian mumbled distractedly, and rose a touch too quickly to be considered truly polite. He crossed the room and had his hand on the doorknob when he heard his name being called.

"_Monsieur_ James? _Monsieur_ James!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Monsieur_--your story?" The publisher held out the manuscript that the boy had forgotten in his haste.

"Ah, yes, thank you. _Merci_" Christian tucked it under his arm. He hoped the burning flush he felt in his cheeks wasn't outwardly visible.

_Monsieur_ Guerre also proffered the novel with the cowboy, the lady and the Mexican on its' cover. "Here, keep this; you might find it useful. _Au revoir_."

In the dim lobby Christian nearly collided into a dapper fellow about his own age, with sandy hair and a slender, finely-waxed mustache adorning his upper lip. The man was dressed in what looked to be the best Savile Row or its' imitators had to offer: a dove-grey wool suit, a matching bowler, a stiffly-starched and pressed blue-and-white striped shirt with a high collar, and a silk four-in-hand knotted about his throat. Black patent high-buttoned boots and immaculate kidskin spats completed the ensemble. In one gloved hand the gentleman carried a dark leather case that appeared to be heavily weighed down; with the other hand, he tipped his hat slightly in Christian's direction. "_Pardon, monsieur_."

A member of the "stable", Christian guessed.

"_Entre_, Michael, _entre_!" _Monsieur_ Guerre's suddenly-cheerful voice floated out from behind his desk. Christian took in the other writer's elegant garb and shining shoes as "Michael" swept past him and closed the office door.

The boy then found himself alone except for the receptionist, who sat behind a small desk. She was young, younger than Satine, perhaps. Then again, Satine had aged so much, lately, it was difficult for him to tell such things anymore. The young woman's simple blouse and skirt were far more modest than the publisher or the writer's fine, expensive suits. Her's was a bright face, round and pink; her blond hair was upswept in the latest fashion, and her delicate chin rested on curved fingers. She smiled at the young poet, sympathetically it seemed to him.

She was pretty--_very pretty--_

He ran out of the room, down the stairs and to the street, not minding the puddles left over from the morning's rain or the old women who cursed him when he bumped into them, and causedthem to spill eggs or apples from their baskets. He ran all the way home, and stopped only when he got to the door of the garret. Only then did he wonder how his trousers had gotten so damp and muddy, and where did that egg yolk on his shoes come from? Only then did he glance down at the already-creased and sweat-stained business card in his hand, then at the lurid novel cradled in his arm atop his own rejected and nearly-abandoned story, then back at the card again.

A mockery, a mockery of his art, of his ideas... 

_But...but..._

"How did it go, Christian?" Satine queried when he finally entered the room. She stood on the balcony overlooking the Moulin; her dark silk dress had clung revealingly to her corseted figure in better days, but now hung sack-like from her emaciated frame. The late afternoon light seemed to pass through her paper-thin skin to reveal the bones in her hands, like those new-fangled x-ray machines he'd heard about from the last World's Fair.

Tiny pieces of bread were scattered on the balcony before her, greedily snatched up by a crowd of twittering sparrows and cooing pigeons. She broke off a piece for herself scarcely larger than those she served her winged friends, and nibbled on it slowly as she took in his rumpled appearance.

"I—I—" He thought to scold her for the waste of food but couldn't get the words to come out properly. _Later, after I've had a chance to sit down and collect my thoughts, after I've had a drink, then I'll speak to her about it--_

"Did you have to splash in _every_ puddle along the way?" Her teasing tone barely hid her annoyance. "I just washed that suit the other day, you know."

"I—I—"

"Oh, never mind, I'll wash it again." She tugged the jacket and waistcoat off of him. "You don't have any appointments tomorrow, do you? I hope not—it takes two full days for your suit to dry. You really ought to be more careful."

"I—I—"

"So tell me, how did it go today? Not very well, I take it, hmm? That's all right; every man who says 'no' brings you one step closer to the man who will say 'yes'. Just remember that, and--" She cocked her right brow as he stared at her. "The tiger really has got your tongue, hasn't it?"

"'C-cat,' "he managed to sputter out.

"Cat, tiger—it's all the same, isn't it?"

Two spots of rouge bloomed, harsh and florid, on her pale, gaunt cheeks. He couldn't help but notice. And he couldn't help but remember the healthy flush of the receptionist's face, as lovely as a bouquet of summer tea roses.

"Whatever's the matter? Christian?"

--_a decent meal on the table—_

He searched, once again, for the right words, and swallowed...hard.

And on Sundays—

On Sunday mornings the young poet's best brown suit hung from a hook above the stove, drying slowly, so that it might begin life anew on Monday. Satine washed it by hand on Saturdays in the modest copper tub that they also bathed in and kept hidden under her bed when not in use. Or at least she gave the job her best effort, until the task wore her out and he took over. Bachelorhood had forced him to pick up basic housekeeping skills such laundering and cooking, and such skills were coming in handy now caring for himself and a sickly lover.

On Sunday mornings, Christian crawled out of his cot and allowed himself the lazy indulgence of climbing into Satine's bed, while the sun painted the walls with a fresh coat of golden color. The iron bedstead creaked and complained as Satine shifted over on the mattress and her poor poet settled in next to her. He buried his face against thin breasts that could not have suckled a child much less a grown man, and tried to ignore the sharpness of her ribs beneath his hands.

"Please, Christian, don't..." She squirmed uncomfortably against his embrace.

"Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you." He pulled away abruptly. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, dear, I want you not to hold me quite so tight as that. I can almost feel my ribs crack!" She gave an embarrassed half-laugh, as if her own fragile mortality was some sort of joke.

The bronze bells of _Sacre Coeur_ rang out their clarion call to the cathedral's flock--the faithful, the dutiful, and the guilt-ridden alike. Satine sighed, and coughed the morning's first cough.

Christian tried to ignore that, too.

_**Moulin Rouge!**_ and it's characters © 2001 Baz Luhrmann, Craig Pierce and 20th Century Fox. _Fairy Tale No Longer _original plot bunnies and characters © 2003 Janice M. Janostak.

**Credits: **"Make Way for Oedipus" by William Butler Yeats—yes, I changed "Oedipus" to "Orpheus" to suit the purposes of the story. (Blame Mr. Luhrmann and his "Orphean myth". Don't blame me. My apologies to the author, however.)

**Dedications: **For "Lady McClellan" for being such a wonderful beta, editor and friend, and helping make this chapter much stronger than it was originally! For Yvi, for providing the initial inspiration (see dedications in previous chapters). For Norah, Lecky, Kelsey, Cinna, and Nicole G. for the unending love and support. And for all my readers and reviewers, who prevent me from giving up on this madness.


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